Estrada offered thanks, bobbed his head, mentioned the positive outcomes they’d achieved thanks to Libardo’s contributions. He blew sunshine, but through pointed teeth. He invoked morality, adherence to norms, principles, our generosity, and my talents, my math skills, my good grades in general. Of Julio he merely said, the boy takes after his father. He’s a good boy, he added. And when he finally said, what can I do for you, Fernanda leaned forward slightly to make her case.
“Our family’s going through a difficult time right now,” she began.
“I imagine so,” the headmaster said.
“Julio and Larry may be all grown up now, but they’re sensitive, and this new situation is affecting them deeply. I haven’t tried to hide anything from them: they know everything, and though Libardo and I avoid arguing in front of them, we’re under a great deal of pressure and do sometimes make mistakes.”
“I understand perfectly,” Estrada said.
“I’m sure that in the coming year they’re going to do their very best. That’s why I’ve brought them with me today, so they can commit to being good students despite the unfortunate circumstances, to work hard and get good grades.”
Estrada smiled at us. Fernanda kept going: “However, Enrique, in exchange I’d like to ask you to talk to the teachers and urge them to have a little extra patience with them, to take into account that my boys’ home life has fallen apart.”
“With luck all of this will pass,” the headmaster broke in.
“No, Enrique, no,” Fernanda said. By now there wasn’t much left of the woman who’d walked in. Her expression was gloomy, and she was no longer flirting or speaking in the cheerful tone she’d started out with. “No,” she repeated, and shook her head. Her voice cracking, she said, “Libardo isn’t going to leave that woman, no matter what happens.”
“What?” Julio interrupted her.
“It’s the truth,” said Fernanda. Sobbing, she added, “He’s in love with her.”
“That’s why you came here?” I asked. “That’s why you brought us?”
“Boys,” the headmaster said, trying to placate us.
“This is ridiculous,” Julio said, then got up and left.
Fernanda covered her face, still weeping.
“You’re unbelievable, Ma,” I told her. “We’re all going to be killed, and the only thing you care about is Dad’s mistresses.”
“What do you mean, you’re all going to be killed?” Estrada asked, confused.
Fernanda shook her head, but she couldn’t speak. So I got up and left too.
“Julio, Larry,” Estrada called out as I disappeared through the door. The whole school was in class now. I saw Julio walking rapidly toward his class. I went over to the railing of the bridge connecting the offices with the classrooms, and there, from the third floor, I saw Libardo’s men leaning on the SUVs, smoking and laughing. One of them was even racing around the car after another one, the two of them chasing each other like children. And I saw Pedro the Dictator get out of another car and run toward the classrooms, all in a rush, already late on the first day of school.
19
It isn’t love that makes the world go round, I tell them, it’s economics. And then I ask, remember Clinton? The one who got the blow job?, Pedro the Dictator asks. That’s the one, I say, though I’d meant the president, not the man. What are you talking about?, La Murciélaga asks, who got a blow job? And Julieth says, what does that have to do with the topic at hand? You were talking about love, princess, Pedro says. Sure, Julieth replies, but why’s this dude bringing economics and that gringo into it? Because Larry’s an economist, remember, Pedro says. I’m not an economist, I say again, I started but never finished. You may not have finished, Pedro says, but if they saved your credits you’re still a work in progress. You guys are such dorks, says La Murciélaga. I was talking about those people, the ones singing at the house, says Julieth, they believe in love. Well, if love means I have to sit around singing with a guitar by a fireplace in a room that smells like burnt meat, I’d rather be alone for the rest of my life, La Murciélaga says. No, Murci, I’m not talking about romantic love, Julieth says, that’s not what I mean, but I do think those guys have got a different kind of power. Who’s got the hooch?, Pedro asks, and La Murciélaga pulls half a bottle of aguardiente out of her purse. You go first, the Dictator tells her.
The bottle passes from mouth to mouth; when it’s his turn to drink, Pedro takes a swig without even slowing down. I, for one, believe in universal love, says Julieth. What kind’s that?, Pedro asks. Where everybody loves everybody else, La Murciélaga says. Then I believe in universal love too, says Pedro, and Julieth punches him in the shoulder. Dumbass, she says, I’m talking about the force that makes the world go round. Economics, I say. Oh, no, no, no, Julieth exclaims, and clutches her head. What a bunch of idiots, you know what I’m saying, stop screwing around.
We move up the Las Palmas highway at the snail’s pace that the traffic permits, along with the rest of the crowd looking to watch the fireworks from a good vantage point. Thousands of lights explode in the sky above Medellín, from one end to the other, as if the entire valley were erupting. As if all of Medellín were a volcano. Roll another joint, Murci, we’re going to be here a while, Pedro says. I’ve got one ready, she replies. Light it up, then. Nobody answered me about the volcano, I say. What? The name of the sleeping volcano in the middle of Medellín. Hahahaha, La Murciélaga cracks up. Nothing and nobody in the city is sleeping right now, Julieth says. Lowering the window, she adds, listen to that noise out there. Open all the windows to let the smoke out, Pedro orders. And the smell, says La Murciélaga, my hair ends up reeking of weed and tomorrow my mom’s going to ask me what’s that weird smell. Don’t tell me your mom hasn’t tried it, Murci, Julieth says. My mom?, oh man, you clearly haven’t met her. No way, Julieth says, we always think our parents don’t do anything, that they’ve never done anything, when in fact they’ve done all the same things we have and more. My dad doesn’t know the difference between a line of coke and a joint, Pedro says. La Murciélaga laughs. Mine have tried it, Julieth says. What? Marijuana. What about coke? I don’t think so, but marijuana they have, Julieth says. She turns to look at me and says, do you remember those nights out on the town with your mom, Larry?
La Murciélaga passes me the hydroponic joint, and in her dark eyes I see curiosity and compassion. Epic nights out, Pedro says, just epic, Fernanda is unstoppable. Is?, I ask, is she still partying? I mean, she’s got a lot of energy, Pedro says.
A car goes by, and they shoot a bottle rocket or a roman candle at us, I don’t know, something glittery and deafening that whizzes past our windshield like a bolt of lightning. La Murciélaga screams and Pedro yells, fucking assholes! He stomps on the gas to go after them, but there isn’t much he can do with all the traffic and the bendy road. Do you see her often?, I ask Pedro, who’s still cursing: those bastards practically fired that fucking thing right through our window! He keeps speeding up and braking, trying to pass the cars ahead of us. At the karaoke bar, a friend of my dad’s asked me how my mom was doing, do you know anything about that, Pedro? I want to see their face when I shove those fireworks up their ass, Pedro says. They’re nuts, says La Murciélaga, who’s only just now recovering from the fright. What’s my mom up to, Pedro? Pedro, you’re going to get us killed, Julieth yells. Let them go, you’re never going to catch up, says La Murciélaga, and adds, it just scared us—we’re over it. They did it deliberately, Pedro says, are you over that too, you chickenshits? He gives up, though he’s still fuming, if I run into them up there, they’ll see, they’ll see. He looks at me furiously and says, we’re in full-on combat mode here and you’re asking me about your mom, give me a break, Larry.